Black Diaries

50. Mad as a Hatter

Did I say hell broke loose? Well, that wasn't really correct. There probably were not nearly this many crazy hats in hell. They wouldn't fit on the devils' horns. Plus, I firmly believe that devils have much too much fashion sense to put anything like that on their diabolical heads.

Perhaps I should explain. For two blissful days after my little chat with Mrs. Jacobs, I lived the life I had wanted: quiet, unassuming, unhomicidal. But then...

Then everything changed.

I had my first encounter with a crazy hat on the first of May, when I was strolling along Main Street, and a woman came striding towards me with a black swan sitting on her head. I stopped dead in my tracks. The woman didn't. She didn't seem in the least perturbed by a member of the Genus Cygnus reclining on top of her head.

What should I do? I had to say something! Swans weren't known for their restraint. What if this one suddenly decided it had to relieve its bowels and... I shuddered. No! No honest, self-respecting woman would allow that to happen to a fellow female. It was my civic duty to intercede.

"Um, excuse me?" Clearing my throat, I stepped towards the woman.

She looked at me. She was about half a head smaller than me—still, somehow she managed to look down at me out of her nostrils. "Yes?"

"Not to be indelicate, but... You've got a swan sitting on your head."

Her expression, if possible, became even frostier. "Do you think," she said in one of those British accents that sounded as if they came from an old king or queen out of a period drama, "that this is funny? You Americans have a strange sense of humor indeed!" Huffing, and readjusting the swan on her head, she marched off.

I stared after her with incredulity. When she finally was out of sight, I continued on down the street, wondering whether I was losing my mind. It was only when I caught sight of another woman driving by in a car that my question was answered. The woman was wearing a satellite dish on her head.

Yes. You read correctly. A real, life, honest-to-god satellite dish!

And that wasn't the last of it. After her, I met in quick succession women who wore—listed in alphabetical order:

● alien antennas

● a birdcage

● a miniature ancient Egyptian pyramid

● a giant iPod

● a fishing net

● a pumpkin

● and, last but not least, a wedding cake complete with burning candles.

I admit, sheltered American that I was, not exposed to the trials and tribulations of the wide world, it took me a little time to figure out that those were truly and really all hats. Hats which people had paid money for.

Even once I had figured that out, though, I had no idea why anybody outside of an insane asylum would be wearing them.

Maybe it's a local custom—some early form of Halloween, perhaps? Or they are all going to a costume ball?

"Come on, Lucky."

Picking my cat up from the sidewalk beside me, I hurried after the latest lady, who was wearing a detailed golden model of the Eiffel Tower on her head. Soon, other people streamed out from the little streets and alleys of Ascot. It didn't take long for me to figure out that they were all going in the same direction.

"They're going to the triangular football field!" I exclaimed, hastening my steps.

"Meow!"

"Oh, don't be a spoilsport! We can eat lunch later!"